It’s ice cream.
The letter I.
My favorite food in the entire world is ice cream. Ice cream sounds good on a full stomach. Ice cream sounds better on an empty stomach. My death row final meal – ice cream. My pat-on-the-back treat every night for not killing anyone? Ice cream. Who screams for ice cream? That would be me if one of my piglet family members eats the last of my ice cream in the freezer.
I once chased an ice cream truck for two blocks in my old neighborhood. This probably sounds slightly psychotic for a grown woman to chase an ice cream truck but to top it off, I also carried a 2-year-old on my hip and I was 9 months pregnant with Kate. I damn near went into labor. Baby Kate enjoyed her chocolate Sundae Crunch Bar that day. She didn’t arrive until a week later when she was finally ready to meet the mother that built her bones via a solid stream of ice cream.
She later broke her tibia bone at age one but that’s besides the point.
It was just this January, almost eight years later, when Kate gave me a lesson in motherhood. It’s a lesson I won’t forget, mainly because it involves ice cream.
This particular January night’s excuse for ice cream was because the night fell on one of the coldest nights of the season. That means the ice cream won’t melt.
Kate: Can we get some ice cream?
Scott: I’m not taking you. Ask your mother.
Me: Yes! Let’s try that new Freezing Moo place. They roll the ice cream from liquid in front of you. I heard it’s good. Go put some pants on over your leotard.
Kate: Why do I need pants?
Me: Because I’ll look like a terrible mother if I brought you inside an ice cream store with no pants on. It’s 13 degrees out.
Kate: But you ARE a terrible mother.
Kate: Your reason should be because I’ll get cold, not what others think of you.